KILLER - cheryl diane kidder

After
fucking you’d say, “Oh my God” every time. A rhythm I thought I’d never get
tired of. But, oh my god, how you came to bore me with that.

We
started at a double feature in the Castro, god, we were the only straight folks
that night. Burt Lancaster and Barbara Stanwyk. It smelled like sex. Your hand
so close. We had Chinese or Thai. You wanted to leave your girlfriend,
remember, or she wanted to leave you.

You
were with me then, crawling up out of my double bed in the Mission drunk on
nothing more than my breath, you said “I want to know you for twenty years” as
if that were the sinew, the promise of bone grafting us in place, hoping once
to use the words in the right place with a woman who’d see it through with you.

And
now, twenty years gone, how did it rip away, how did the blood dry up, the
cells mutate, that once held us tongue to hip, eye to breast, hope conjured on
so little.

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